We walked home hot and sweaty, on that humid April night. It was unseasonably warm, and the fact that we'd just spent some hours under and near 50 Billions watt Kling lights didn't help. Of course, the dripping, clinging clothes on the girl at my side didn't exactly help me cool down.
"What'd he say to you," I asked, "When he pulled you aside, back there."
Karen, he hand in mine, beamed innocently, "Who? You mean Davy Jones?"
"Yes," I said, grinning.
"You mean after he signed my jeans?" She gestured to her baggy sopping denim rump, where the rock star's signature kept on rockin' and rollin'! Jones had written upon Karen, before he'd talked to her privately.
"Yes," I said, frustrated that she wouldn't give me what I wanted.
She skipped a bit ahead, with me, attached at the fingers, stumbling along after her. "If you're nice to me, maybe I'll tell you."
I pulled a fake pout. "When have I not been nice to you?"
She grinned, squeezed my hand tight. "Nicer, then."
I was walking her home. It was well after eleven, and it was the gentlemanly thing to do, though certainly, not all my thoughts were gentlemanly. It was absolutely necessary, though. A fine young girl like Karen needed protection from all that the night threatened. There were dangers behind every corner: That cat could have eaten an unextinguished bomb, that garbage can could carry rabies, that big strong-looking leather-garbed toughie could approach us and beat us to smithereens.
I pulled Karen close to me as we approached said loitering big guy. I think I'd seen him around school, a senior, like me, always with a bottle of cola in his mouth. He was clearly not one you messed with.
"Hey, Blackie," Karen said, jumping up to mess with his hair.
"Hey, Rutabaga," He responded, his lips off his pop for just enough time to say that.
"I can't believe you used to hang with such a rough crowd," I said. We walked into the Beckett Playground, right near school.
"The Police State's not so bad," Karen said, "If you spend enough weeks with them, you get college credit."
"It's still a gang," I replied and we walked over to the water fountain. She bent down for a drink, letting go of my hand. This gave me a chance to wipe it off, so she wouldn't feel my hesitation/perspiration coming off on her. I didn't do a good job of drying, since I was concentrating so hard on the girl.
She pursed her pale lips as she bent over the fountain, her black hair dangling over the sides, just covering most of her ears. Those ears, normally a very sensitive pink, could barely be seen beyond her straight locks. I missed those ears. The lamplight sparkled off both the water and her eyes, only one of which was open.
She was beautiful.
Karen stood upright wiped a bit of excess water off her chin.
I tumbled my breath, "You've," I pointed, "Got a little water left."
She looked concerned. "Where?"
I pointed.
She smiled, beckoning. "Where?"
I touched her wet spot, wiped it off. It was really near her lips.
"Thanks," she said, leaning on my shoulders, giving me a peck.
"Sure," I said with a world-conquering grin, "Sure."
"This," I said, putting the papers down, "This is so touching, Steve."
He was across from me, standing near his window, as tears subtly welled up into my eyes.
"Oh, stop it," he said, shoving my head into the old green vinyl mush he called a chair.
"No, really," I said with a laugh, wiping faux water from my eyes.
"Bart..." he growled.
I held up the collected papers he'd handed me. "This gonna be published?"
"What do you mean? Like one of those mags in high school?"
I shrugged. "Yeah."
"You mean those freebies that we published with varying titles, but always emblazoned atop with the legend The Moon's Edge Presents?"
"Sure," I said, uncomfortably glancing at his pages again.
"Did you by chance look at the first page?"
I dutifully did so then. Emblazoned across the top, in fiery red letters with yellow background read The Moon's Edge Presents: then, in slightly smaller but still bold letters, The Peas Sneeze.
"The Peas Sneeze," I repeated, vaguely recollecting.
That was about when the phone rang.
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